


The Red and the Green, or: Here, There and Everywhere

by BluWacky



Category: Fringe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluWacky/pseuds/BluWacky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's more than one of everything.  Sometime's there's more than two.</p><p>Warning for minor gore.  This is Fringe, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red and the Green, or: Here, There and Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yukito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yukito/gifts).



> Set in the early part of season 3.

**Boston, Massachussetts  
October 12th**

 **Here**

 **  
**

A slightly urgent moo issued from the corner of the Harvard basement laboratory that Dr Walter Bishop called ‘his’.

“Aspirin?  Aspirin, Gene needs expressing.  Can’t you hear the cattle lowing?”  Walter peered out from his blood-smeared goggles to see if he could spot Agent Farnsworth in the room.  “I don’t want to smear her with cerebral tissue again.”

“ _Astrid’s_ not here, Walter.”  Only the slightest of emphases carried a lifetime of weariness.  Peter stood at the other side of the gurney where half of the body of one Mark Blatt, formerly of Greenwich Village, lay.  Peter’s mouth was covered by a mask as he gazed flatly across the corpse, as if he were talking to a puppy that had chewed the carpet.  “You sent her out for more brownie ingredients.  Before you say anything, no, she will not bring you weed, and no, I am not milking Gene in her absence.”

Walter waved his scalpel, flicking small droplets of blood and miscellaneous matter around the lab.  "You know, I really think I should have a somewhat fuller coterie of staff here these days.  Are we not helping to combat the omnipresent and imminent danger of an invasion from a parallel universe?  Six billion lives could depend on aiding that cow's lactation.

“Also,” he leant in closer, giggling slightly, “more people here would give you and Agent Dunham lots of time to enjoy some _canoodling_...”

“I’m going to have to stop you there, Walter, before I am violently sick into the dead body of this poor, poor man.”  Peter’s eyes betrayed nothing, as ever, but Walter hoped there was a smile beneath the mask.  “Speaking of which, I’ve been standing here for about five minutes before you even noticed me.  You must have found something.”

Mr Blatt, the unfortunate deceased, had been found in the apartment of a man named Dave Kepple in Tribeca, New York.  Peter’s cursory glance round the department confirmed Messrs. Blatt and Kepple were lovers, and the fact that Mr Blatt’s body had been found in the bedroom naked gave some idea of what had been going on.

“Body” was a generous description, however; what was left was about half of his body.  The rest, along with Mr Kepple, had just vanished.  There were no obvious wounds, no blood spatter around the apartment – just half a body, lying face down in a seeping pool of fluids and tissue.  No-one had seen Mr Kepple leave, there was no sign of forced entrance or exit – he was just gone, along with the important parts of his boyfriend.  Those that hadn’t fallen out when they’d tried to move the body, that is.  Walter had been outraged that Mark Blatt’s last meal appeared to have been Italian – not particularly patriotic, in his view.

“Oh, yes, of course.  Well, I was considering which of Mr Blatt’s internal organs would be best for juggling if plasticized when I noticed that there was a slight, shall we say, shimmer on the surface of his insides, as if they were blurred or smudged.  At first I thought it was just the fumes from the bottle of ammonia that I spilt yesterday – accidentally, I will remind you – but then I hooked him up to the ECG monitors – “ Walter waved his scalpel around the various cables attached to the cadaver as he stumbled his way hesitantly through the sentence – “and it produced a most curious reaction.”

Walter used the scalpel to flick a switch on the machine next to him.  Various monitors sprang instantly to life in a curiously haphazard pattern.  Readings twitched and fizzed, numbers scrambling into shape and then fading out almost instantly, and a screeching noise that clearly caused Gene further discomfort to add to her already swollen udders.

“Walter?” came a shout from the doorway, as Olivia entered the room, her hands clasped over her ears.  “What are you doing?”

“Ah, Agent Dunham!” Walter’s eyes lit up.  “I believe that cacophony is the sound of objects trying to exist in a gap between parallel universes!”

“Can you turn it off?” Olivia shouted over the racket, grimacing slightly.  “I need to talk to you both.”

Walter frowned and flicked the switch back off.  Gene paced round her small enclosure as the noise died away.

“And a very good morning to you, Olivia.”  Peter lowered the mask and smiled.  Her mouth twitched briefly in response.  “Please tell me you brought earplugs.”

“No, but it looks like I might be going to need them.  We’ve tracked down Dave Kepple’s mother; turns out that he was originally Dawid Kepczynski before the family changed their name after emigrating from Europe.  The guy’s father is Witold Kepczynski, who moved back to Poland shortly after his son was born in ’85.  Mrs Kepple said he had some kind of quasi-religious epiphany after Dawid’s birth and was convinced his son was somehow... possessed, somehow not of this earth.    Seems like he might know something about what happened here.   We’ve managed to track down Mr Kepczynski to an address in Chorzow through the SWW out there, but they don’t have a Fringe... a science team to investigate this thoroughly, so Broyles has ordered me to go out there and meet Mr Kepczynski myself.”  She paused, smiling briefly.  “So... I'll be abroad for a while.  If you need me I'm on my cell I guess.”

“You know, we could just come with you.”  Peter studied her face.  Olivia seemed distracted.  “Poland is one of the few countries where I haven't pissed anyone off in the past ten years and I have absolutely no idea how to speak the language.  It sounds magical.”

“I don't think we'd be very welcome, Peter.  You must remember that your grandfather at least appeared to be a Nazi.”  Walter pottered idly with some medical instruments, his interest in the corpse before him momentarily lost.  “You could go with Olivia for _moral_ support, though, that would be extremely chivalrous of you.”  He winked with the subtlety of a skyscraper.

“No, no, it's fine.  I can do this myself.  You carry on with the examination.  Seriously.  Not a problem. “  Olivia was fidgeting, clearly anxious to leave.  “I'll be fine, really.  I’ll even swing by that bakery yiou like on my way back once I’ve filed the paperwork at the office.  See you both soon.”

She said nothing to Peter as she left.  She didn't even ask what they'd discovered from the body, or follow up on what Walter had said about parallel universes.  Peter frowned, but didn't push the issue – it didn't seem like the best time.

~

ABOUT TO LEAVE COUNTRY BY PLANE.  POSSIBLE INCURSION ELEMENT.  REQUEST ASSISTANCE.  WHO IS CONTACT.

Olivia waited nervously by the typewriter for half an hour with no response.  She added an extra line, hitting each key forcefully.

NOT PART OF PRIMARY OBJECTIVE.  REQUEST ASSISTANCE.  WHO IS CONTACT.

She left fifteen minutes later.  The typewriter remained silent.

\---

 **Department of Defense Headquarters**

 **October 12 th**

 **There**

 

Olivia knocked briefly, almost sheepishly, on the glass door before stepping into the room.  “Mr Secretary,” she said, “You wanted to see me?”

“Ah yes, Agent Dunham. “  Walter Bishop looked at her impassively.  “I appreciate your time is short, but if you would sit.”  He gestured to a chair on the other side of his desk.  “The somewhat unusual nature of your request for travel funds was brought to my attention by Ms Farnsworth.  A most irregular set of circumstances, but one that interests me nonetheless.”

Olivia glanced briefly around the office before taking a seat with a nod.  The clouds outside cast a dull sheen on the reflections that bounced in the glass windows and walls around her.  The light was harsh and slightly painful.  She hadn’t slept well that night, and had woken completely disorientated as to where she was.  She had spent the rest of the morning in something of a daze, barely even smiling as Lincoln and Charlie’s banter in the car (“That’s your second energy bar this morning, Agent Francis.  Are you _sure_ you don’t have worms?”) on the way back from the DoD hospital.

“Astrid is nothing if not a stickler for the rules, sir.”  Olivia tried to smile to lighten the mood, but for some reason couldn’t bring herself to.  Instead she looked thoughtful, teeth slightly bared; the reflex came off more defensive than she’d intended.  “Technically, I suppose this isn’t something that the DoD should handle, but with no incursion events taking place in Poland the Chief Rabbi requested that someone with experience travel to handle the situation, so...”

“Colonel Broyles has given me his report.”  The Secretary leant back in his chair.  “This Mr Kepple, or Mr Kepczynski as I understand it, disappeared while walking with his girlfriend, a Ms Emily Rosenblume, in the Tribeca area two nights ago.  Ms Rosenblume's hand has vanished along with Mr Kepple.  Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”  Olivia was guarded.  She knew what this meeting would be about, but something was bothering her.  There was more to this than a routine examination of her travel request – Colonel Broyles could have easily approved the cost, even though Astrid had passed it higher up.  Why did the Secretary want to see her – in fact, why did he want to see her so often, now?  He seemed remarkably concerned with her well-being in recent weeks.

“So you have located Mr Keczynski's father in Chorzow and have reason to suspect that he may be somehow connected with this incident.”

“Witold Kepczynski became quite a noted scientist in Poland in the Nineties, sir.  Perhaps you were familiar with his work on music, particularly how certain harmonic frequencies can be used to cause seemingly distinct particles to resonate in exactly the same manner across vast distances, like a long distance microwave attuned only to a particular type of atom or molecule?”

Olivia focused on her reflection in the window in front of her, dwarfed by the zeppelins overhead, as she spoke.  Why was she sure the Secretary should know all about this?

She blinked.

As her eyes re-opened Peter Bishop stood before her.  Indistinctly reflected in the glass, standing behind the Secretary.  Or maybe out of the corner of her eye, leaning against the wall.  She was sure she could feel him behind her, watching – would he be there if she turned round?  Internally she panicked.  Why now?  Why was she seeing _him_ , someone she wasn't even sure existed?

“Careful, Olivia,” said one of the Peters.  Or maybe it was all of them as one.  Olivia's eyes flicked from side to side to check where the voice was coming from; she hoped the Secretary would not notice.  “You can't tell him everything.  He's waiting for you to slip up, to give away that you know things that you shouldn't.”  The Peters gave a quick smile.  “You won't.”

Walter seemed lost in thought.  Olivia cleared her throat.  “Sir?”

“Ah, yes.  Excuse me, Agent Dunham.  I have to admit I was not familiar with this research.  I'm afraid that Polish” - the Secretary almost spat the word - “science is not of great interest to me.  Regardless, I am afraid I am not immediately clear as to why this is a matter for Fringe Division.  Incursion events, as you know, cannot take place without debilitating loss of dimensional stability, which is what we have been attempting to counter-act.”  Walter stood up from his seat and stared out the window.

“He's lying.”  The Peters all stared at their father.  “You know that.”

Olivia rubbed absently at her eyes as if to try and clear the Peters away, to no effect.  “Call it a hunch, sir.  Dr Kepczynski is the best lead we have on this case.”  She spoke passionately and emphatically.  Despite all that she knew – all that she thought she knew, anyway – she had a gut certainty that Dave Kepple had somehow crossed to another universe.  Not that she would share this, however.  “What harm can it do to check the guy out?  If it comes to nothing I can write it up and Astrid can admonish me down to the last zloty of wasted expenditure.”

Walter frowned.  “Do you have anything scientific to back up this 'hunch', Agent Dunham?  Reason should be your watchword in your investigation, not intuition.  Your rashness is a little worrying.”  The Peters gave Olivia a look – _don't screw this up_.

“Agent Lee conducted an examination on Ms Rosenblume's hand that revealed some anomalies within the remaining cell structures.  The neoplasial unit at the DoD hospital has been completely unable to regrow her hand due to some kind of interference with the tissue regeneration – it's something like 'phantom limb' syndrome, except in this case, she seems to be psychologically aware that her hand is missing but physiologically her body can't decide whether it's there or not.  It's as if her hand is stuck somewhere between both existing and non-existing.”

The Secretary smiled genuinely, taking Olivia aback somewhat.  Something approaching passion sparked in his eyes.  “Schrödinger would be thrilled, Agent Dunham.  Such a scientific conundrum would have fired my soul in my younger days.  Those days, however, are far behind me.”  He sighed.  “Very well.  Go to Poland and see what you can find out.  If anything, this...Kepczynski may have information that could be useful to us in the troubled days ahead.  Remember, we are locked in a war for the survival of our universe, and we must be prepared to fight back by any means necessary.”

Olivia looked straight at the stern image of Peter in the window behind Walter.  “I understand completely, sir.”

~

“Sir, we have a message from _our_ Agent Dunham.”

“And?”

“She will be out of contact for a while.  She has had to travel abroad and is requesting assistance.”

“Where?” Brandon detected a hint of interest in the Secretary's voice.

“She didn't say, sir.  The message was short.  I had nothing to respond with. Do we have any foreign support, sir?”

Walter was silent.  Brandon took this as a cue to leave.

\---

 **Chorzow, Poland**

 **Here**

 **  
**

Olivia was alone and, to her great surprise, afraid.

Travelling up to New York to catch a flight to Warsaw had been bad enough – the postcards she had seen at the airport were alien to her with their eerily empty skylines,  and she'd been thrown off-kilter when she'd tried to produce her ShowMe instead of a passport (the photo inside which had been somewhat alarming, this world's Olivia glaring out of the page like someone possessed).  The train journey to Katowice had been grey and gloomy, giving her too much time to think.  Why did no-one reply to her message home?  Why did Fringe Division appear to have no support network outside the USA?  It had to be a mistake.  It was hard to believe that no other international government would specifically combat the threat from the other side; the destabilisation could spread cross-continent at any time, surely?

She’d found the address in Chorzow easily enough – a square breezeblock of a house set on a hillside, no car in the driveway.  Olivia drew her gun as she approached, her step wary.

She knocked on the front door, three sharp raps against the wood.  “Mr Kepczynski?” she shouted.  “Are you there?”

There was no response.  She knocked again.  “Mr Kepczynski?”

A strangled cry in what sounded like Polish came from somewhere in the garage built into the cube of the house.

“Sir? Are you all right?  Where are you?” Olivia shouted.  She drew her gun in close at the ready as she moved quietly over to the intimidatingly ancient garage cover.

“Don't let me go!” the same voice shouted in English with a heavy Polish accent.  “Don't!”

Olivia used one hand to pull the garage cover up; strangely it was unlocked, the rusty metal screeching as it slid upwards.  She quickly brought her gun back down to bear on the inside of the garage.

The garage was empty, bare concrete walls and floors stark save the occasional splash of excess paint or random scuff.  Empty, except for the man sitting in the centre of the room.  He appeared to have tried to tape himself to a wooden chair with a roll of duct tape.  A thick black roll lay discarded on the floor beside him with jagged teeth marks where he had torn the final piece of tape off.

Witold Kepczynski looked dishevelled and disorientated.  Despite having immobilised himself he seemed desperate to get out of his chair, rocking backwards and forwards.  His bald head was slick with sweat and his hands constantly twitched in frustration.  He wore no shoes, having apparently flung them at the walls some time previously; beneath the duct tape he appeared to wear a brown shirt and old, shiny black trousers. 

He appeared to be completely out of his mind.

“Mr Kepczynski?”  Olivia dropped her voice to sound as calm as possible, her mind churning with uncertainty.  “Can you understand me?”

“He is coming for me!  Dawid is coming for me!  I cannot go!”  Witold was virtually incoherent, his voice rising and falling in exaggerated cadences as he struggled to force the words out.

“Mr Kepczynski, I need you to calm down.  Where is Dawid?  Where is your son?  Is he here?  Do you know what happened to him in America?”

“You're not supposed to be here!  I'm not supposed to be here!” Witold's eyes rolled.  “Don't let me go!”

Olivia took the chance that the man strapped down in front of her still had some coherent thought in him, growing angrier by the second.  “Where are you supposed to be?  Are you from _our side_?Do you understand me?  Where is your son? TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON?”

A sudden chime rang out of nowhere, like the peal of a bell softly rung.  Olivia looked around but could see nothing that would make such a noise.  Witold's eyes widened.

“No!” he whimpered.  “No!  Don't take me!”

Olivia made a snap judgement.  If she could extract any information from the gibbering wreck in front of her it could be useful, no matter what methods she might have to use.  Still with her gun raised, she stepped towards him.

Witold threw his entire body backwards, toppling the chair as he did so.  “Stay back!  You can't come!”  Heat appeared to spread across his body, his palms glowing red.

A vast roar began to fill the room.  Olivia kept her gun trained on Mr Kepczynski.

“Oh no.  You're not going anywhere.” she shouted above the noise, trying not to show her panic.

Olivia pulled the trigger.

\---

 **Chorzow, Poland**

 **There**

 **  
**

Olivia was alone and, to her great surprise, afraid.

The flight over to Warsaw had been bad enough; it felt like every thought in her head was battling through some kind of fog to break through to the surface, as if it was a struggle just to hold on to who she thought she was.  She'd even ordered a small shot of whiskey without even realising it – she'd thrown it down the toilet on the airplane, but not before being hit with an almost overpoweringly strong desire to down the whole thing in one go.  The train journey to Katowice had been grey and gloomy, giving her too much time to think.  Why was she so focused on this case?  Why was she so sure she had the key to working out what had happened to Dave Kepple when it flew in the face of everything she had been taught and seen about other universes?

She’d found the address in Chorzow easily enough – a square breezeblock of a house set on a hillside, no car in the driveway.  Olivia drew her gun as she approached, her step wary.

“Just a word of advice before you go in there, Olivia.”  She felt Peter’s presence beside her.  “I’m not going to patronise you by holding your hand and telling you everything’s going to be fine.  It isn’t, or I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.  This is going to be important.  Maybe you won’t know why, or maybe whatever they’ve done to you will negate whatever experiences you have today,make you forget again.  I don't know.  But that fear you're feeling right now?  It's a good thing.  You know that you're out of your depth now, and maybe, just maybe, that's the wake-up call you need that I can't seem to give you.”

“Now is not the time,” Olivia muttered under her breath.  “You're not even real.”

“That's neither here nor there, Olivia.  I'm still giving you this advice.  You just wish I was giving it to you in person.”

Olivia took a moment to make sure that her brain had nothing else to say to her to make this harder than it already was.  Then she knocked on the door, three sharp raps against the wood.

“Mr Kepczynski?” she shouted.  “Are you there?”

A voice in lightly accented English shouted back at her.  “I’m busy.  Sorry.”

“Mr Kepczynski, I need to talk to you about your son, Dave Kepple.  Can I please come in? I’m from the US Department of Defense, I’ve come a very long way for this, and I’m not going until you speak to me.”

There was a pause.  “Fine.  I’m in the garage.  Not that it'll do a lot of good.  The door's open."

The garage door was newly painted and oiled, sliding open smoothly as Olivia opened it with one hand, quickly snapping it back to steady her gun once the way was clear.

The garage was empty, bare concrete walls and floors stark save the occasional splash of excess paint or random scuff.  Empty, except for the man sitting in the centre of the room.  As Olivia trained her gun on him she sized him up.

The man she assumed was Witold Kepczynski sat back in his chair in a relaxed posture, his hands resting on his midriff almost nonchalantly.  His gaze as he looked at Olivia was curious but unafraid, and he greeted the armed agent with a small smile.

Olivia noted to herself that he was wearing no shoes.  She tried to ignore the fact that she was certain the man was _glimmering_.

"Who are you?" Witold asked.  His English was almost flawless.  "I shan't be here long."

"Mr Kepczynski? My name is Olivia Dunham.  I work with the Fringe Division of the US Department of Defense."  Olivia kept the gun steady.  "I need to ask you some questions about your son."

"Then why are you pointing a gun at me, Miss Dunham?  Why do you think I would know where Dawid, or Dave, or whatever he goes by these days, is?  I haven't seen Dawid since I left the United States in the Eighties.  I don't have long, by the way.  Would you please stop pointing that at me?"  Witold's voice was irritatingly calm.

"I'd like some answers.  Please."  Olivia half-smiled reflexively.  "You know something about this, don't you?  It's something to do with your research.  Where did your son go, Mr Kepczynski? How far away has he gone?"

"Ah!" Mr Kepczynski smiled.  "You're asking the right questions, certainly.  Although I can't imagine why.  I believe my research has been discredited on your side of the Atlantic by a gentleman by the name of Bischoff, or Bishop, or something like that?  Quite a diatribe he wrote in New Scientist, you'd almost think it was personal."

"I don't care," Olivia lied, "I need to know where your son has gone.  Is he even... in this universe?  Has he crossed over?"  Witold was definitely shimmering.  There was something very familiar about this, screaming through the quagmire in Olivia's brain that she needed to pay attention to it, but she couldn't quite grasp it.  It must just have been a trick of the light.

Witold raised an eyebrow.  "Miss Dunham, have you ever had the distinct feeling that you are in the wrong place entirely?  That you don't belong?  That you really, truly, are from another place entirely?  I've had that feeling my entire life - and before you start, I'm not some poor misunderstood genius feeling ostracised by his peers for his wacky work in strange noises.  I genuinely shouldn't be here.  And I won't be for much longer.  I can hear it already."

A sudden chime rang out of nowhere, like the peal of a bell softly rung.  Olivia looked around but could see nothing that would make such a noise.  Witold's eyes widened.

"You heard it too?  You should get going, Miss Dunham.  It may not be your time to go, but I suspect it should be."  Beneath the glimmer, small red patches appeared to break through on Mr Kepczynski's skin, and a strange noise began humming in the background.

Something inside of Olivia clicked for a moment.  "You have to help me.  You have to get me out of here, " she almost pleaded, "I don't belong here either.  I need to get home."

"I'm afraid I can't help you, young lady.  I have no control over this.  I'm merely being summoned back home."

A vast roar began to fill the room.  Olivia kept her gun trained on Mr Kepczynski.

“Oh no.  You're not going anywhere.” she shouted above the noise, trying not to show her panic.

Olivia pulled the trigger.

\---

 **Neither Here Nor There**

In an infinite expanse of choices, in countless possibilities and permutations, there are differences.  A single blood cell vibrates slower, an irritating fly darts left instead of right;  a tree in the forest falls and someone sees it.  Branch upon branch, divergent universes spin off in endless different ways.  Each universe is special.

Some are more special than others.

December, (or Grudzień, for that was how he would have been known here had anyone asked) walked casually behind an Olivia as her gun fired.  He watched as one of a multitude of Witold Kepczynskis vanished with a buzz, the bullet passing through where his body had been and thudding into the wall behind where he had once stood.  He did not need to see where this one went; that would wait until another time, another place.  There were more pressing issues at stake.

He left the Olivia standing there without a backwards glance.  Adjusting his coat against the October chill, he left the breeze block house on the hill in Chorzow behind him.  Was she scared of what this meant for her?  Was she worried about how to report this?  Who knew what this one would have to do next.

There are those who would say there are more than one of everything.  Sometimes there are more than two.


End file.
